from thirty yards away. His features were boyish, but those eyes. She had a sudden sympathy for the ants on a sidewalk. Uriel’s depthless silver stare made her feel small and insignificant, a microscopic fleck on the span of history in which he was a warrior prince, commanding empires and tipping the scales in great battles. He was Apollo, riding a golden chariot though the sky and she was nothing compared to the scope of his existence.
Then his lips quirked up on one side and Uriel, Angel of Presence, fourth of God’s seven lieutenants, winked at her.
Sasha went preternaturally still.
He knew. About Jay’s abduction, her quest, the portable arsenal she had strapped to her body beneath the worn red leather of her jacket, all of it.
Irritation rushed through her, breaking her awed trance. Of course he knew. He was an angel. The bastard probably had a hand in selecting her as the angelic whipping girl of the night.
The entire heavenly host were on her shit list at the moment, but Sasha didn’t think storming up to the altar and cursing out Uriel would be terribly effective. She had a mission and no time to waste on holier-than-thou assholes.
Uriel’s smile turned biting, as if he could hear her thoughts. Oh, Sweet Baby Jesus, she hoped he couldn’t hear her thoughts. His wings snapped open like a weapon being drawn and the congregation gasped in appreciation. It would have been even more awe-inspiring if his wingspan hadn’t been crooked.
It seemed so unangelic to be anything but perfect, Sasha was surprised he would unfurl his wings completely if they were lopsided. Then she realized it wasn’t a deformity in the wing, but the way he was holding it. He’d twisted one wing to angle downward.
Pointing awkwardly toward a sign for the mausoleum at the back of the church and a staircase heading down. The crypts.
Trust an angel to make giving directions into a spectacle.
Sasha nodded her thanks—hoping she didn’t look half as bitterly ungrateful as she felt—and cut across the sanctuary to the stairs.
The mausoleum didn’t look like the spooky crypt she’d envisioned. A pair of guardian angel etchings flanked the doors. Even with no light coming through the stained-glass windows, it was bright, airy and spacious, with the same clean geometric lines as the rest of the cathedral. It didn’t feel like a tomb. And there was no sign of Hell’s gatekeeper.
Sasha pulled the invitation from her pocket and reread it. The catacombs. Not the mausoleum. Could there be another crypt beneath this one? There were no stairs here. Studying the parchment, she noticed a watermark of the numbers 140 like a mirage beneath the script. She angled it for a better look, making out the shape of a falcon, holding a key in its talons and with the name John in a banner across its breast.
Great. John. Because there was bound to be only one John buried here.
She wandered along the corridor and scanned the names listed on the crypts, pausing for a moment when she saw Gregory Peck’s final resting place. The burial couches were numbered, but the numbering skipped from 135 to 141. Frustrated, Sasha tracked back toward the front of the mausoleum and stepped into a nearby alcove, searching for the missing couches. She yanked on the double doors leading off the alcove, but they were locked tight. Then the stained-glass window caught her eye. At its center was a crest with a winged lion standing on a banner with the name St. Mark scrolled on it.
Not a dead guy named John. Saint John.
Sasha moved quickly through the side chapels, searching for the bird with the key and hoping Uriel hadn’t pointed her in the wrong direction just to be an ornery prick.
She almost missed the St. John alcove. Shooting off another hidden nook, it wasn’t visible from the main corridor. The stained glass was a perfect replica of the watermark, but when she looked at the invitation to confirm, the picture had changed, now reading Geryon.
Sasha tested the
Then his lips quirked up on one side and Uriel, Angel of Presence, fourth of God’s seven lieutenants, winked at her.
Sasha went preternaturally still.
He knew. About Jay’s abduction, her quest, the portable arsenal she had strapped to her body beneath the worn red leather of her jacket, all of it.
Irritation rushed through her, breaking her awed trance. Of course he knew. He was an angel. The bastard probably had a hand in selecting her as the angelic whipping girl of the night.
The entire heavenly host were on her shit list at the moment, but Sasha didn’t think storming up to the altar and cursing out Uriel would be terribly effective. She had a mission and no time to waste on holier-than-thou assholes.
Uriel’s smile turned biting, as if he could hear her thoughts. Oh, Sweet Baby Jesus, she hoped he couldn’t hear her thoughts. His wings snapped open like a weapon being drawn and the congregation gasped in appreciation. It would have been even more awe-inspiring if his wingspan hadn’t been crooked.
It seemed so unangelic to be anything but perfect, Sasha was surprised he would unfurl his wings completely if they were lopsided. Then she realized it wasn’t a deformity in the wing, but the way he was holding it. He’d twisted one wing to angle downward.
Pointing awkwardly toward a sign for the mausoleum at the back of the church and a staircase heading down. The crypts.
Trust an angel to make giving directions into a spectacle.
Sasha nodded her thanks—hoping she didn’t look half as bitterly ungrateful as she felt—and cut across the sanctuary to the stairs.
The mausoleum didn’t look like the spooky crypt she’d envisioned. A pair of guardian angel etchings flanked the doors. Even with no light coming through the stained-glass windows, it was bright, airy and spacious, with the same clean geometric lines as the rest of the cathedral. It didn’t feel like a tomb. And there was no sign of Hell’s gatekeeper.
Sasha pulled the invitation from her pocket and reread it. The catacombs. Not the mausoleum. Could there be another crypt beneath this one? There were no stairs here. Studying the parchment, she noticed a watermark of the numbers 140 like a mirage beneath the script. She angled it for a better look, making out the shape of a falcon, holding a key in its talons and with the name John in a banner across its breast.
Great. John. Because there was bound to be only one John buried here.
She wandered along the corridor and scanned the names listed on the crypts, pausing for a moment when she saw Gregory Peck’s final resting place. The burial couches were numbered, but the numbering skipped from 135 to 141. Frustrated, Sasha tracked back toward the front of the mausoleum and stepped into a nearby alcove, searching for the missing couches. She yanked on the double doors leading off the alcove, but they were locked tight. Then the stained-glass window caught her eye. At its center was a crest with a winged lion standing on a banner with the name St. Mark scrolled on it.
Not a dead guy named John. Saint John.
Sasha moved quickly through the side chapels, searching for the bird with the key and hoping Uriel hadn’t pointed her in the wrong direction just to be an ornery prick.
She almost missed the St. John alcove. Shooting off another hidden nook, it wasn’t visible from the main corridor. The stained glass was a perfect replica of the watermark, but when she looked at the invitation to confirm, the picture had changed, now reading Geryon.
Sasha tested the
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